Valentine's Day

Remember handing out Scooby-Doo valentines in elementary school?  Or cutting up doilies and using clumpy paste to make valentines for your parents?

That's when Valentine's Day was simple.  We all got older and it became flowers, and fancy cards, and dinner reservations, and premium candy, all of which had been marked up outrageously for the holiday.

After a couple of years of marriage, I told my husband "Enough."  Cards are nice, but let's skip the overpriced roses and the crowded restaurants.  Maybe we would go out to dinner the weekend after the holiday, or I would pick up some lovely tulips from a street vendor.

Then, a couple of years ago, my husband suggested that we just have a really nice meal at home.  He would cook.  I would get the wine.  A simple plan, but I was skeptical. We have two kids.  What would we do with them?  Or would we have this really nice dinner with them, too?  That didn't sound like much fun.

As it happened, it was quite possibly the best Valentine's Day we had ever had.  The kids ate early and then went up to their rooms.  My husband and I enjoyed a lovely candlelit dinner and finished off that bottle of wine before falling asleep watching TV.  Our son came down to tell us that he was going to bed, and discovered his usually sober parents sprawled on the couch, totally inebriated.  It was great.

Last year, I made a valentine for my husband.  (Of course you did, you may mutter.  You're an artist.) It wasn't because I was overwhelmed with creativity; it was because I forgot to buy a card.  I had bought the wine, and the candy for the kids, but I totally forgot about the card.  So I made this:

He loved it! I'll probably do it again this year.  Perhaps you'll consider making a valentine, too, and see what happens.  But don't forget the wine.

Is This Blog Still Active?

Anyone there?

Ok, so it's been a little while.  The holidays happened, and I learned a very valuable lesson: start with more inventory!  The entire month of December was devoted to trying to keep up.  Now I know to get started earlier.  Like, um, right now.  I just received more dye and more fabric so, in theory, I could just go on down to the basement and get to work. No, I'm serious. I can get a head start.

(Who really thinks that's going to happen? Anyone? Bueller?)

A Simple Experiment

Jacq's Girls at Eastern Market

This is a picture of my table at Eastern Market on Sunday, November 25, 2012. There are 3 ballerina dolls, one on the left wearing a pink tutu, one on the right wearing peach, and one off-center wearing turquoise. The turquoise-wearing doll is blonde.

I made all three dolls at the same time and started displaying them together. The first time I set them out, I positioned them all toward the front, but Turquoise was near the middle. Little girls were immediately drawn to her. "She's so pretty!" they would say, and "I like this one best."

Mothers of all colors struggled with a child-appropriate way to address what seemed to be an affinity for the blonde doll over the others. "But you like pink so much, sweetie!  Let's look at the pink one," was a popular diversion. The look on all of their faces was summed up by what one mother whispered to me: "She can have any doll she wants, but does it have to be that one?"

Was this an echo of the Clarks' famous doll experiments? These were tests conducted in the 1940s in which children were shown a white doll and an African-American doll and were then asked which doll they would rather play with. The white doll was preferred by both white and African-American children.

There had not been any clear preferences before I set out the blonde ballerina, and blonde hair brings its own issues. Barbie is blonde. Cinderella is blonde. The "pretty" girls on TV are frequently blonde. Women spend millions of dollars a year dyeing their hair blonde. And in the midst of this, mothers are trying to teach their daughters that brown hair and red hair and black hair are just as beautiful as blonde hair. They are not against blonde dolls, but they are alert to signs that the popular media's "blonde is best" message is affecting their children. Watching their daughters pick out the one blonde doll on a table full of dolls felt like a defeat.

I was curious about whether this fascination with that doll was because of her hair or because of her position on the table.  So on Sunday, I decided to try a little experiment.  I moved her to the back of the table.  She was elevated, which she had not been before, so she was quite visible.  I placed the darkest brown ballerina, the one wearing a peach tutu, on a front corner.

To my surprise, not one child pointed out the blonde ballerina. They all went to the one wearing the peach tutu.  "Look at this one, Mommy!" girls would squeal. "Mommy, this one is the prettiest!" they would say, gently stroking the dark hair or the brown arm.

Maybe there is hope for us yet.


Back to hanging out with the fantastic bloggers at Yeah Write! Because I can.

6 Things I Learned at Eastern Market

I have now had three Sundays as a vendor at Eastern Market and I'm really enjoying it. Here's what I have learned so far.

1.  It's not Fenton Street.  Eastern Market has been around a long time; Fenton Street only for a few years.  As a result, everyone is sort of new at Fenton Street, but the Eastern Market vendors tend to be long-timers, with some of them vending regularly for 10 or even 20 years. It's kind of like being the new kid in school, where people have to size you up before they decide whether you can play with them at recess. So far, though, the playground has been a pretty friendly place.

2.  People expect you to be there regularly.  This follows on to #1.  People don't want to hear about your fantastic newsletter -- they expect you to be out there on a regular basis with the stuff they want.  I can do regular, but don't look for me in cold January and colder February.

3.  You can eat your earnings very quickly.  I'm looking at you, Pie Lady, and you, Indigo, in particular.

4.  Half-spaces are fantastic.  One table of dolls doesn't have to take up a whole 10x10 space.  Eastern Market allows you to share a traditional space with another vendor, which cuts costs with little impact on display.

5.  Lots of little girls are out with their parents, and they have doll radar.  I can hear them coming before I see them. "Mommy, there's dolls!" "Daddy, let's look at the dolls!"  I always feel a little guilty at first, like I actively enticed them to my table, but then the feeling passes.

6. Barry Margeson and Katrina Cuffey are doing a great job.  Since the market is run by the city, city employees are responsible for its smooth operation.  City government doesn't always work so well here, but I appreciate Barry and Katrina's efforts to maintain the high quality everyone expects from Eastern Market.

I Approve This Message

I voted yesterday.

Not voting has never been an option in my family. When I hear people saying that they don't like the candidates so they just won't vote, I think of my parents in 1982.  We were living in Birmingham, AL and George Wallace was running for his fourth term as governor.  He had won the Democratic primary and run-off largely by presenting himself as a man who had found God and repented for all of those ugly racist things he had said before.

My parents weren't buying it.  As one of them noted, the Bible says to forgive; it doesn't say you have to vote for the person you forgave.

Unfortunately, they were also repulsed by Wallace's opponent.  Rather than not voting, my parents voted for a little-known third-party candidate.  Wallace won easily, but my parents weren't voting to pick a winner; they were exercising their right to vote against two loathsome options.

The first time I voted was in a primary election in 1984 in Birmingham, AL.  I was 18.  They had those election booths like you see on television, with a lever that closes the curtain.  I felt so proud as I pushed the little levers inside the booth, then pulled the big lever to open the curtain and register my choices. Citizenship had never felt so exhilarating.

I registered here in Washington, DC after the 1988 election.  I remember my initial disappointment the first time I voted here: there were no booths with curtains, only little carrels, and you had to color in the arrows to mark your ballot.  But then, leaving the polling place, one of the poll workers handed me a sticker that said, "I voted."  Well.  I placed that sticker on my coat and enjoyed a knowing solidarity with all the other people sporting their little stickers.

I have taken my children with me to vote when possible, and explained to them what it all means.  My son, who is 16, can't wait to turn 18 so he can vote.  That makes me happy.

Use your vote however you want.  It's your right.  But please, use it.

To quote Bob Schieffer's mother, "Go vote.  It will make you feel big and strong."

Initiation

Just because it's Halloween, y'all!

We were not having fun.  Ten of us were outside in the teacher's parking lot, near a side door to the auditorium, waiting to be initiated into our high school's thespian troupe.  I have always been involved in the arts: years of ballet, now quilts and dolls, but in high school, it was drama.  I was invited to join the school's troupe in my junior year, along with nine other students.  Our drama teacher/sponsor, Mrs. Simmons*, was a kind young woman with enough energy to direct dozens of rambunctious teenagers in the annual spring musical and still laugh when we cracked the same bad jokes, over and over, which was often.

The week leading up to the actual initiation had been kind of fun.  Each day had a specific challenge; I only remember having to dress up as a character one day (they chose Maria from West Side Story for me).  Mrs. Simmons and the kids who had been inducted in previous years kept it light, but there was an undercurrent of foreboding surrounding the ceremony itself, scheduled for Friday evening in the school auditorium, and about which we knew nothing.  Every now and then one of them would imply that we should be very concerned.

We assembled at 6:00.  It was October, and the days were getting shorter.  It was cooling off as the sun began to go down. A light breeze rustled the leaves on the trees outside the lot.  I hoped we wouldn't be outside long.

Six-thirty came and went and we were still outside.  We had exhausted regular conversation -- Mrs. Chatman's shoes, the new principal's penchant for calling everyone "honeypot" or "doodlebug," whatever that was for lunch -- and unease was keeping us quiet.  The street lights just outside the lot shone through the trees, illuminating some areas while leaving the dusk untouched in others.  We milled about in a patch of light.  Camilla produced a Hershey bar that we passed around.  The mouthful of chocolate was delicious, but I was getting cold.

Finally, "What do you think we're going to have to do?" Alex asked.

Several kids shrugged. Evangeline offered, "Act?"

"Do you think they're going to do something to us?" The apprehension behind that question was one we all shared.

"No, Mrs. Simmons wouldn't let them do anything to us."  Pause.  "Would she?"

It was getting darker, and chillier.  Seven o'clock.  "What are they doing in there?"  we all asked each other, as if continuing to ask would supply a rational answer, and not the (we hoped) far-fetched ones we had voiced earlier that involved paint, nasty things to eat, and general humiliation.  The wind had picked up a bit and crispy brown leaves were rattling across the parking lot.  I pulled my arms inside my jacket for warmth.

A little after 7, the door creaked opened and we all jumped, startled.  Eliza, a girl who had been the lead in several shows, held the door ajar as she poked her head outside and gestured for us to come close.  We huddled around her, hoping it was time to go inside and get this over with.

"Ok, look, I'm not supposed to tell y'all this.  We're just trying to make sure everything is okay in there."  She was talking fast and low and jerked her head toward the interior of the auditorium, which was dark.  "The problem is that sometimes, things happen.  They didn't think I should tell you, but I think y'all need to know."  We passed worried glances at each other.  What could be so bad?

"The year I was initiated, we were almost done, and then this girl, do y'all remember Jenny Findlay?"  No one did.  "Well, we were almost done, and then she just started screaming.  I mean, screaming like someone was killing her.  We couldn't get her to calm down and Mrs. Simmons had to call an ambulance.  Jenny transferred to John Carroll because she just couldn't walk back into the building without panicking.  It happened again last year. Did y'all know Connie Adams?" I did remember her.  She had left abruptly last fall.  She had had a beautiful voice.  "Look, we're on the alert now, so we're hoping nothing happens.  But if it does, you know the story now, so don't freak out.  They'll call you in a few minutes.  Good luck."  She stepped back inside and closed the door.

It was dark next to the building.  As a group, we ambled silently back toward the light.  My stomach growled.  There were no more candy bars. I shivered, cold and on edge.  It wasn't bad enough that we were outside, in the dark, becoming jumpier the later it got, but now there was this new story.  None of us wanted to believe it -- haunted school building? -- but Connie had left school.  Doubt sidled up to unease.

"I think they're just trying to scare us," said Teenage Bravado.  "Maybe her dad got a new job."

"Or maybe something's wrong in that auditorium.  Have you ever been in here rehearsing late when there's hardly anyone else in the building?  It's pretty creepy."  Several voices agreed.

"Then how do we know nothing happened?"

Seven-thirty and the side door opened again.  "You may come in, now!" a voice called.  I couldn't tell who it was.

We were heading to the door when the screaming started.  One long shriek, followed by shorter hysterical ones.  Three initiates took off for the fence.  Amy had started climbing before the sound faded.  I backed away from the building.  Should I run, too?  Would it matter?

And then we heard the laughter coming from inside.  This was thespian initiation, after all, and that had been quite a performance.


*All names have been changed.


Back on the yeah write grid, because the withdrawal symptoms were just too much!

The Chosen

I was always the last one chosen for teams when I was a child.  I was small and skinny, and I came from a family that prized brains, because we had no brawn.  It didn't bother me, because I didn't want to play anyway -- secretly, I hoped the gym teachers would just say, "Oh, it's alright, Jackie.  We'll give you credit for your outstanding reading skills.  You don't have to play."  That never happened.  Not even once.  Character-building came through failed efforts to serve the volleyball, pop flies that I either missed or that landed on my face, and an inability to put a basketball through the hoop.

Recently, however, I had a different kind of experience with not being chosen.  American Spring, the exhibit put together by the Fiber Artists for Hope, is in Little Rock, Arkansas as part of the commemoration of the 55th Anniversary of Central High School's desegregation.  All of the quilts were shipped to Arkansas but the two venues did not have room for all of them, so the people setting up the displays selected what they wanted based on the story they were trying to tell.

My piece was not among the chosen.

I shrugged it off at first, but then I went back and looked at what seemed like an awfully long list of the pieces that were selected.  Instead of being happy for the other group members, I was getting grumbly.  Was I the only one that didn't get picked?  What was wrong with mine?  This isn't volleyball, people, so why didn't I get picked?  In my jealous fog I even went back and compared the "yesses" to the complete list.

I am not proud of this.

Reason and calm returned when I saw that no, mine wasn't the only one, and that there were recurring themes in the works that would be hung in Little Rock.  The organizers had chosen wisely.  I was embarrassed about my mental tantrum and no one even knew about it.

I felt even more ridiculous this morning when I read the email notifying me that my quilt, along with seven others, would be travelling to Philadelphia to be displayed at a youth anti-violence conference.  Dick Gregory and Trayvon Martin's parents will be speaking.  This venue is perfect for these eight quilts and I am thrilled that mine is going.  What was that about good things and waiting?  Maybe next time, I'll hold off on the indignation and see what happens.


Linking up with Yeah Write again this week, because I can't seem to stop myself.